You Me and the Nations Between Us
by lovemeartless
Summary: A collection of France x England (mostly FrUK & UKFr) stand alone stories that are 1,000 words or less. So far, this contains: "Superficial" & "Not Always Easier Said Than Done".
1. Superficial (Always So)

**Summary: **When exactly Nations first grew hearts of their own is a mystery, but it only serves to burden them in times when they are only required to obey. In Arthur Kirkland's case, his heart is but a clock ticking when asked to lie in bed with one he doesn't love.

**Warning: **Noncon or dubcon, references to sex, exploitation, and very sensitive ideologies – so definitely not for the qualmish or purists.

**Disclaimer:** Please take time to read the (lengthy) standard disclaimer in my profile page for _all _my Hetalia stories before you proceed. The good news is once you've read it you'll never have to read it again. Yay!

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**Story#180: "Superficial (Always So…)"  
**

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_My heart is breaking._

_An abstract ache filling my chest to bursting…_

_Is this what pain really feels like?_

**-{x}-**

I always close my eyes.

The hands that fall upon the hem of my shirt, to pull it up and off – the same ones that unbuckle my belt and pants to undress me completely – they are calloused and rough; and they don't love me.

But I pretend I don't know.

I close my eyes and always occupy my mind with aimless thinkings in lieu…

Maybe if I shut this dreary world out and paint it over in my mind, I could keep myself. I could keep the life inside me and shut the door behind me, just like every time before; So that no matter how often I have to step out to meet it, it shall never set foot into my soul.

Then I could be free to gaze up at the breezy sky watching cloud shows instead of ceilings full of superheroes; Bundled in lush green fields, instead of musky unwashed sheets with crumbs and cheese powder that stick to my bare skin, as I lie against it with the most overweight of the world straddling me, spilling love handles and the whole happy package. _They say close your eyes and think of England._ And that is what I do, in the longest nights of my life.

I close my eyes so deeply I'm sinking; convincing myself that I want this: _That I want this as much as they do; It would be easier if only I could make my stubborn soul understand._

But I never do, it never is, and I never win.

Sometimes I tell myself I'm really asleep and having a bad dream, that's all. All dreams, no matter how awful, always end eventually, right?

A hungry mouth eats up my plastered smile. As my insides are filled, I only feel emptier. I lull my aching body with words, '…it won't be long now', '…just a little more'. It's always been my nature to make the best of any situation, no matter how ugly.

No matter what, I don't open my eyes. Not even for a fraction of a millisecond. Because as long as I lock myself inside I'm safe; Even as tears spring to my eyes and dry sobs rack my throat; Even if the pain spikes right through shattering the reverie I strove to put in place, I liked to imagine—

To believe… that humans – no matter how frail and bound by endless desires and sin – could be devoted to something, could remain pure and beautiful, no matter how twisted their existence may be.

And we, who are only half-mortal but all too human and part-god,_ could be no less. _

I dream of falling in love, and following my heart, and freeing my will. Despite the diabolical forces and selfish motives that manipulate us…

No matter how great _the temptation __**not to feel**__…_

Someday, I tell myself, all would be made right with the world. And I could hold the Beautiful Dream* in my hands…

We who are nothing greater than our obligation to our design; Born as _fragments of an apotheosis_, to become _puppets_. Perhaps it's a cruel retaliation of fate; karma of some forgotten unforgivable crime we have yet to atone for. Or perhaps this was merely history and the bible rewriting its characters, and each of us was another Jesus Christ to be crucified for our people's sins. The irony of the role I play was that of a useless god… As useless as a self-destruct bomb that I didn't hold the detonator to. Sometimes I liked to believe that I was really the one holding that switch.

Then I could keep smiling.

Keep believing I am the master of my fate.

(Even if that fate was of a king who ruled over nothing— nothing but his own frail and feeble heart…)

The rest of me may be sold time and again to the next bloody demon in power or the blinded people they lead. For whatever sick purpose our existence served I knew not, nor fathom its depravity. They can have their false security, their superficial promises and their lies; Greed, deception and all. I've known it since: _we are not at all gods._

Finally the show is over.

My legs are trembling but I leave the stage running, without a backward glance, in haste to leave it all behind: The greasy lips, the overeager mouth and forceful homologous kisses, the unrefined touches, the mindless grunts, the stars and stripes… and boredom ad nauseam.

I start to come alive again as I draw nearer to where I left my heart.

Where the real kisses are waiting for me – I could almost taste them! Kisses made of cotton candy and sunshine; touches and smiles of lush fields and perfect clear skies; that euphonic sotto voce in my ear with the wooing endearments, my calming rainbow after a deluge.

The merry clumps of rose bushes and bearded irises greet me – and with it sweet memories of precious arguments on how it came to be. I melt into the warm embrace that has been standing by the threshold, waiting for me.

"I missed you. Welcome back."

And I sigh with a tremble in my voice, "God, I missed you too much, I'm so glad to be back…" I ask if he's been waiting long, fighting the child in me with so much pent-up fear and self-pity and tears.

He smiles and shrugs and tugs on my sleeve, ushering me into the dining room saying the food is still warm, and that it's my favorite beef stew, and fresh watercress salad with grapes, walnuts and cottage cheese (adding with a mischievous grin, that I get to choose the dessert, which he knows all too well what – _or who _– it will be).

Lapsing into the Beautiful Dream—

The one thing not superficial in my life,

Finally I could open my eyes.

For I am home.

**The End.**

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**Notes:**

My first Arthur first-person POV fic, and this is one of those fics that just happened. I didn't want to write this because it's too realistic and depressing. But as much can be said on how I feel about the (to me) very superficial "S.R." which was even called an "illusion" in one book I read; Also on U.S. often exploiting things British. They have a nasty habit of taking witty & lovely British things and making downgraded, cheap "sell-out" (Americanized) versions of it. Ugh. I so despise them for that. Poor Arthur…

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* The self-proclaimed hero's bed sheets are the stars & stripes.

* "The Beautiful Dream" is what those who envisioned the Entente Cordiale (eventually the Amicale & Formidable) call the consummated relationship of France & England. It's so much more romantic sounding than the "Special Relationship" isn't it? ;b

* Because those yummy French macarons tastes so much like cotton-candy and sunshine to me.

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_x-posted: AO3 ~LM_Artless & dA ~frukdilection_  
_01/12/2013 ~ 08/18/2013_


	2. Not Always Easier Said Than Done

**Summary: **Let's see, there's France being France and England being England, FrUKness, fairies and a scarf. I consider this a FWP (Fluff Without Plot), so there's not much to summarize. The title is pretty much the summary. I'll just warn you again that this is nonsense.

**Warning:** Mild angst, attempt at humour & fluff. Oh and did I already mention nonsense?

**Disclaimer:** If you haven't yet, please read the lengthy _Standard Disclaimer_ on my profile page. It could alleviate you of any possible stress in the future over my writings. Merci lovelies!

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**Story#197: Not Always Easier Said Than Done**

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"I love you Angleterre..."

There were many things, perhaps too many to recount, that irked him about Francis Bonnefoy. But there was one he could not stand above all, and it was just _that_.

That he was an insufferable git so full of himself. Enough to indulge in his free and unbridled emotions whenever, wherever...

_This_.

_Blowing kisses behind my back, humming while cooking our food (long infecting me with his French DNA); and that. Whispering rubbish in my ear and bringing his froggy lips to mine when I was fast asleep._

_Not giving me a chance to defend myself... _

_Always so obnoxious... always..._

**- {x} -**

"Why are you in such a bad mood?"

England looked up at his fairies, then back down at his knitting project, clicking his tongue and perfunctorily twisting the needles and mending the threads in a pattern of his idea.

Maybe the very inkling that he didn't understand why he felt so irked was what irked him most.

"I dunno!" He replied testily, pricking his finger in the process."Ow! Blooming fiddlesticks!"

His fairies winced. He squeezed the bleeding finger and brought it to his lips and suckled.

"That's not very hygienic you know..." The one named Donnabelle crooned.

"Perhaps it's how he always makes me feel like I owe him something!" England groused, ignoring the reproach. "Doing all those foolish things in such a sneaky fashion! It's so unspeakably infuriating! So depravedly French!"

The fairy called Rosebud raised her dainty brows at him disapprovingly, "What're you saying? All he did was tell you he loved you! Why must you-"

"Precisely! While I was bloody asleep! Or so he thought! It's underhanded. And annoying!"

Rosebud shook her head slowly, eyes and lips pursing, "That's exactly why he does it when you're unaware! Because you find reasons to be angry at him even when he isn't doing anything wrong! He's being nice! We thought it was very sweet, which is why we told you about it! Now I clearly see it was a mistake!"

England stubbed his finger again but hardly noticed, too caught up in a rising tide of frustration. A speck of blood gleamed where his finger daubed at the wooly fabric. He mechanically continued his knitting, face crumpled in irritation.

"He's just being selfish…!"

"Hmph, fine. Be a grouch all you want! If you keep being that way France will grow tired of you and run off to find someone else who'll love him!"

At that England shot up looking livid. The fairies scattered out of sight before he could unleash the scream he had been meaning to upon them, to leave him the bloody hell alone.

Sitting back down he sighs, eying the material that had fallen to the floor. He bends over and resumes his work absent-mindedly, feeling his eyes start to burn. Big drops of tears were soon blotching the happy shades of red, blue and dusty-white on his lap, and he hastily wipes his eyes on his apron, trying in vain to hold back the emotions.

_But I do love him… I love him too much I hate him...! God! Does that even make any sense?!_

France always had a way of making him feel so helpless. He clutched the unfinished scarf to his chest… _So warm. _

No, he wasn't going to let France beat him at this game.

**- {x} -_  
_**

England's heart was asunder once again. He always woke up first, but he never got up. He always took his time, these precious fleeting moments – _sometimes minutes_ of freedom, to be himself and stare at his companion's angelic face...

Too soon, France would stir; And England would hurriedly close his eyes and pretend he wasn't staring - pretend he wasn't watching him sleep. Then he'd feel it... How France stayed perfectly still too, watching him; touching his face with such fragility it burned; Endearments whispered so delicately, like dewdrops on gossamer.

"_Je t'aime Angleterre..._"

Before England could muster the courage to draw up a response; or recover from the butterfly kiss pressed to the tip of his nose; the Frenchman was already dressed and out the door, his light humming fading until there was no sound left but the merry twittering of early birds.

"Francis..." England murmurs to his pillow, reaching underneath to pull out a wrapped bundle.

As he'd resolved, he gave it after breakfast that day and not a second later. The Frenchman raised an eyebrow upon receiving the bundle, a smile ghosting over his features.

"It isn't my birthday."

"It doesn't have to be."

France reads the note attached:

**This is an enchanted scarf. Wear it when you feel cold. It will warm your heart not just your neck. I made it so you can feel my heart when words fail me.**

Carefully, ceremoniously, France took out the soft fabric, and with hushed excitement wrapped it snugly around his neck. Their eyes met briefly, before England looked away embarrassed and both their cheeks instantly tinted pink.

"I love it," said the Frenchman softly.

"It suits you."

"It feels so warm... like your naked body is wrapped aroundz me. Maybe I should stri—aïe!"

France rubbed his head where the other's knuckles bap'd it. England's blush had intensified.

"So violent, why can't you be more like your scarf?"

"Shut it frog. If you must molest an item of clothing I made, at least have the decency to do it privately!"

"So if you transmit your feelings to me zrough zis, will you feel what'zever I do to it as well?"

"NO! And you're a right git! I'm starting to wish I cursed that scarf to strangulate you instead!" England rose and started stomping away, already having second thoughts about the brashness of his actions when a hand latched on to his arm.

"Why're you articulate enough when you are angry?"

"Why must you be so bloody infuriating?!"

"I love you too, Ar'zzur."

The Englishman sighed deflated, as he was enclosed in France's arms.

"And Ar'zzur~?"

"What?"

"Your scarf is feeling horny."

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**Notes:** Sorry. (*_*) This is the only ending that would come out. Just something I needed to write on a very stressful day.

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April ~ August/29/2013 (x-posted in the usual places)


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